The Third God

by Ricardo Pinto

  Suddenly a touch on his shoulder made him spin round. A shadow man was there.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ it whispered in Ochre. It was Fern.

  ‘To make water.’

  ‘Why not just go to the edge of the road?’

  Carnelian thought of making up a better lie. Then he felt an overwhelming need to confess to Fern and it all poured out in an urgent whisper: his dream, its promise of salvation in return for his sacrifice.

  ‘I knew you were up to something.’

  ‘Then you’ll let me go?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m coming with you.’

  Panic tightened Carnelian’s chest. All kinds of objections came to him, but all he said was: ‘You can’t.’

  ‘What if you’ve not understood the dream properly?’ hissed Fern.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you so sure the shadow is Osidian? Couldn’t it be me?’

  Carnelian wanted to deny this, but the dark vision of his dream held him back. Or, desperate to have Fern with him, was he just fooling himself?

  ‘Do you think I feel less for these children than you do?’ Fern said.

  Carnelian thought his decision to go on alone weakening. Fern reached out for him. They clung to each other.

  Carnelian felt Fern mouth the words against his neck: ‘I’m not going to let you die alone.’ He felt suddenly safe and, almost, joyous.

  Black road beneath their feet. To their right, an infinite field of stars into which Carnelian kept kicking things to ripple the mirror and thus destroy the vertiginous illusion that kept making him lean towards the water. They had tried walking nearer the centre of the road, but away from the lake it grew so dark they stumbled all the time. In that direction rose the impenetrable black band of the leftway and its evil-smelling ditch. Apart from their scuffling footfalls and the curses as they stubbed their toes against the edges of paving stones, the only sound was the lapping of the water.

  Where the watch-tower should have been was nothing but stars. Tumbled into the ditch amongst a mound of rubble that blocked the lower door they could just make out the spars that had held up the heliograph platform. Carnelian tried to see if they could at least scale the mound to get up onto the leftway, but it did not reach even halfway.

  Fern called to him, softly, as if the night might be listening. He went to stand beside him, gazing south. ‘Look there.’

  Carnelian saw Fern’s arm against the water starfield, pointing. ‘What—’ he began, then saw it himself. A narrow band of blackness between the stars in the lake and those in the sky. Their first glimpse of land beyond the flood.

  Suddenly, the leftway came to a ragged end and they saw, spreading out before them, the flood mirroring the stars of heaven. From the water rose a lonely watch-tower. It seemed to Carnelian they had been walking lost, without any certain destination, neither uttering a sound, for fear words might dent their resolve, but he knew in his bones that that watch-tower was what they sought.

  ‘Let’s climb it,’ he said and Fern agreed, adding: ‘The edge of the flood must be close to where the Iron House lies ruined.’

  Uneasy at that thought, they set off towards the shadow tower.

  Posts rose up on either side of the road that they realized must be the remains of the massive outer gates of Molochite’s camp. Carnelian hesitated. The posts seemed guardians; like the colossi that guarded the entrance into Osrakum. He knew that he and Fern stood upon an earthbridge; on either side the military ditch had become a moat.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Fern asked.

  Carnelian sensed that, once they crossed the drowned ditch, there would be no turning back.

  ‘Come on, it’s not far away,’ Fern said in an angry tone Carnelian sensed was really fear.

  They walked along the road that cleaved the mirror of the flooded camp where once Molochite had marshalled the might of the Masters. With each step the tower grew larger until they could see its arms spread wide against the stars. Carnelian felt the visceral shock even as Fern whispered: ‘It’s like a tree.’

  Chilled to the bone, Carnelian said nothing, but just kept walking. They came to the stumps of the gates that had once opened into the Encampment of the Chosen and passed through, aware they were entering another circle. A ring within a ring, like the Stone Dance of the Chameleon, except that this circle was cut directly into the body of the earth. And then Carnelian saw that it was as if they were penetrating to the heart of some infernal mockery of the Koppie, except that in place of its mother trees there stood a lone, gigantic black tree. Like a baobab, he thought, with deepening foreboding. The impression grew stronger as they came closer and it spread its branches above them. Then they were standing before the doorway at its foot and Carnelian shuddered, for its reflection sent roots down into the Underworld and he knew in his marrow that this was the fulfilment of his dreams.

  ‘Now what?’ Fern whispered.

  Carnelian summoned up his will. ‘We climb.’

  Together they approached the doorway and offered themselves up to be swallowed by its absolute darkness. Dank the air, thick with an animal stench. Carnelian sensed the fingers seeking his and clasped Fern’s hand. Slowly, he felt his way along the clammy wall until it brought them to the first ramp. Their feet found the ridges in the slope and they began climbing. They followed the wall round to the next ramp; breathing stinking air; starting each time the body of the tower creaked above them. Both wanted to go down, to flee into the starry night, but they had accepted it was their fate to climb higher. Ridge after ridge after ridge. Another turn. Until, at last, they shuffled out onto a smooth floor, their free hands fingering the blackness, a cool, sweet breeze in their faces. They followed it, hoping to reach the exposed section of leftway remaining outside. Then their grip clenched as they heard movement on the ramps below. They turned, aware of the animal odour swelling. Padding footfalls. They drew closer, wanting to face the brutes together.

  MOTHER DEATH

  The heaviest burdens are carried in the heart.

  (Plainsman proverb)

  ‘WE’RE UNARMED,’ CARNELIAN SAID INTO THE DARKNESS THAT HE SENSED was filling with bodies. ‘We’ve come to offer ourselves up to you, willingly.’ He had not managed to keep his voice steady. The scuffling grew louder. He could smell their sweat, their filthiness, the foulness of their breath that seemed a contagion he wanted to shrink from. He stood his ground, however, drawing what reassurance there was in feeling Fern against him, but he did not fool himself. He was afraid. If this was the fulfilment of his dream, it was not how he had imagined it. What had he done? How could he have brought them to such a squalid end?

  The scuffling ceased. The smell of fear was sharp in his nostrils. At first he thought it was rising from his own body, or from Fern’s, but then he realized it laced the stench wafting towards them. This sharpened the panic to an insistent throb in his temples. Frightened, the sartlar could be as dangerous as raveners.

  Sudden light stabbed his eyes. He threw his arm up to shield them. Gasps were followed by the sound of the creatures in the darkness recoiling. Carnelian lowered his arm slowly, squinting. He could make them out, a shapeless mass crowding the chamber; all hair and rags. A single crooked, bony arm holding aloft the light. He glanced round at Fern. Each saw the other’s fear. The skin around Fern’s eyes creased. Carnelian read this as a sign of acceptance. It calmed his heart a little. Disengaging from him, he turned back to the sartlar and raised his arms, pressing the wrists together in a sign of submission. ‘We’ll not fight you.’

  Heads lowered, the sartlar shuffled closer, some edging along the walls to surround them. Carnelian could not help searching through their manes for their eyes, seeking the light of any humanity that might have descended to them from their Quyan forebears, wanting to find that part of them that was like him; but they ducked as his gaze fell on them, wincing as if he were hurting them.

  Suddenly, with a shriek, one of them lunged towards him, swinging at him. Carn
elian raised his arm, but not fast enough. Something hard crashed into his temple. Next thing he was on his knees, groaning. Fern’s anguished cry made Carnelian try to focus. He became aware of them pounding Fern with their clubs. He gaped at him falling to the ground bleeding, certain he must be dead. A groan from Fern caused Carnelian’s paralysis of grief to melt into tears. He fought down rage and an urge to violence and allowed his arms to be wrenched behind him. He bore the cruel binding as if his forearms had been someone else’s. He watched them trussing up Fern. What hope was left in Carnelian died as he saw them tie a rope around Fern’s neck, so that he hardly cared when one was put around his own.

  Sartlar shoved and yanked them down the ramps like sacks of roots. It was easier once they tumbled out onto the road. Then they were marching, stumbling at each tug of the ropes around their necks, crashing to their knees to be jerked up again. Remotely, Carnelian remembered his last slavery upon this same road. This time there could be no Fern riding to the rescue.

  Lurching along, Carnelian fell against one of the sartlar, who threw him off. They had come to a halt. The sartlar growled words to each other he could not make out. Though he could just see their shapes around him, it was their stench that gave them a more solid presence. There was a sound of footfalls running off along the faint road. Trying to make out the runner, he found instead a black mass cut out from the starry sky. At first he could not imagine what it might be, then he knew. Half off the road, what else could it be but the Iron House?

  A slackening of the rope at his neck distracted him. He sensed the sartlar around him relaxing and took the opportunity to shuffle towards where he guessed Fern to be. His shoulder touched something that shuddered, but then pressed back against him. As their point of contact warmed, Carnelian felt a little safer. His gaze returned to the malevolent mass of the Iron House. Was that odour of blood oozing from its iron skin? He gave a shudder and looked away, soothing his fear with the view into the water below the road, with its dusting of stars. He became aware its southern margin was dull. Squinting, he could see nothing but darkness in that direction. A susurration came across the water as if they were near the sea. He shivered, turned back to the brooding blackness of the Iron House. That the flood should have reached here and no further seemed an evil omen. Then he remembered something and turned to search for the edge of the road near him. Sure enough, a curve of shadow rose there, so close that, had his arm been free, he imagined he could reach out and touch it. It was the upper edge of Molochite’s fallen standard leaning against the road. It had given them shelter the first time they had made love. He chose to see in this a more hopeful omen.

  ‘Follow,’ said a voice in the darkness. Carnelian had heard the footfalls approaching. The rope jerking at his throat forced a groan. Through the rage surging into his head he was aware Fern behind him was crying out. There was a struggle.

  ‘Just you,’ said the sartlar.

  Carnelian’s anger froze to fear. He would never see Fern again! It was no good. They had both chosen this. He let go of hope and followed the sartlar into the darkness.

  A torch flared. Its light revealed a shallow slope of sharp-edged undulations, one side of which was wedged into the road. He recognized the hinged, partially lowered flight of steps that gave entry into the Iron House. Its leaning wall of scales faded up into the night. Becoming aware of its bulk haloed by stars, for a moment he was certain it was toppling towards him. Someone was behind him. The bindings on his arms fell loose. He brought his arms forward, rubbing at his wrists as he felt the prickle of blood returning to his fingers. He was shoved forward. A sartlar holding aloft a torch was negotiating the steps. The man seemed to be leaning so much to one side it looked as if he must fall. Carnelian followed, slipping his feet into the angle of the steps.

  The torchlight defined the leaning rectangle of the great doorway. The darkness of the Iron House swallowed much of the light so that Carnelian stumbled several times reaching the sloping floor within the doorway. The tang of old conflagration made him remember what had happened here. To his right the sartlar was climbing a flight of steps that leaned towards him precipitously. Carnelian followed, edging towards the wall so that his feet would not be in the sartlar’s shadow.

  Concentrating on not slipping from the angled steps, he was not immediately aware of the other odour. Dry, dusty with a sickly meaty tang. Slowly he came up into cavernous space that seemed partially open to the sky. The floor sloped up towards a wall, but the light was moving the other way. Carnelian turned and looked down the slope of the throne-hall and stared. The place was crowded. On either side of the raised central walkway, dark figures packed together leaned with the slope of the chamber.

  It was their stillness that convinced him these were not living men. In the wavering light of the torch that was moving steadily away from him, he saw what seemed expressions shifting as the shadows ran across the hollows of their faces. Sunken cheeks, gnarled dark skin. At first he thought they must be barbarians of some kind, but then he realized how, even standing in the pits on either side of the walkway, they dwarfed the sartlar shambling through their midst. Chosen, then, in some way mummified. He became aware that those he could see had empty pits for eyes. Scared, he hurried down the slope after the edge of the torchlight aware of the corpses’ stares.

  By the time he reached the steps that rose to the throne dais, the sartlar was already climbing them. The light stopped moving and the man returned down the steps without the torch. Carnelian stepped aside to let him pass. He listened to the footsteps receding behind him. Soon an eerie silence descended, made thicker by the delicate guttering of the torch up on the dais. The shadows of the crowd of Standing Dead slipped up and down the walls as if they were bobbing in some solemn dance. He began to climb the steps. Slowly the throne came into sight. The two gods rose behind it, their faces sinister and glowering. He stepped up onto the dais that sloped down to the throne, empty save for a mound of discarded rags. Carnelian’s heart jumped as a voice spoke from their midst.

  ‘Master.’

  Among the rags, Carnelian located a pair of eyes; eyes that were gazing at him from within the ring scar of a deep branding. A face whose wrinkles seemed a continuation of the folds in the sacking that clung to the head. Carnelian was trapped in a waking dream, gazing upon that red face.

  The eyes widened. ‘You?’

  He stared back. ‘Kor?’ Could this be the same sartlar woman? He tried to remember when he would have last seen her. Had she even made it as far as the Leper Valleys? He peered at the mutilated face beneath the coating of red ochre. The obscene nasal cavity in her skull had widened, but her eyes had a glint of cunning that was familiar. Was it a vestige of the Quyan humanity millennia of subjugation had crushed from her kind?

  He froze. Unlikely as it was that she was here, it was his dreams that had brought him to her. Was it possible that she was the answer to all the riddles; the factor missing from the calculations of the Wise? Was hers the single mind behind the swarming sartlar? Her red face was certainly an echo of his dreams and there she sat upon the throne of the Gods. They stood behind her, Father and Son. Her face marked for the Mother, she completed the Triad. He sounded again the Quyan word for death, ‘kor’. He swallowed past a parched throat. This, then, was where he must offer himself in exchange for the children. He sought mercy in her face, but all he could see in its ruin was a leathery indifference. Any life there had been in her eyes had been murdered by what she had seen.

  ‘Why have you come here?’ she said.

  Carnelian tried to find something artful to say, but only the truth came out. ‘I’m following a dream.’

  Her brows eclipsed her eyes as she frowned. Her lower lip consumed the upper. Carnelian wanted to catch her emotion before it sank beyond reach. Frantically, he tried to sort images in his mind. She was slipping away from him. ‘The dream came . . .’ he said, saw her red face, read the branding, ‘from the earth.’

  As her face uncrumpled
, the brand became circular again. ‘All are clay in Her hands.’

  Enough tension left Carnelian’s chest for him to be able to take a deep breath. It was a start. He regarded her, trying to find the next step. ‘What brought you here?’

  Kor squinted at him. ‘You.’

  Carnelian thought he could see a path. ‘You mean, because I freed the sartlar from the land?’

  Kor’s mouth sagged open, leaving Carnelian uncertain of his footing. He explained the dream that had led him to free the sartlar. As he spoke her head sank into her chest. He realized something. ‘You didn’t know it was me.’ Why should she? All she could know was that a command had come to her people from a watch-tower.

  The sartlar raised her head and Carnelian saw a glinting in the grooves around her missing nose. Was she crying? His shock that she might be made him realize he had still been thinking of her as some kind of animal. It made him angry at himself that, in spite of everything that had happened, he was still that much a Master. However mutilated, this was a woman.

  ‘Clay in Her hands,’ she said.

  Carnelian sensed his news had somehow lightened her burdens. ‘What did you mean . . . before?’

  ‘Your blood,’ she said, grimacing away the tears.

  ‘My blood . . . ?’ He was confused.

  She frowned. ‘You don’t understand? We believed you to be the Dead.’